


when i hold you, don't you know the truth?

by riots



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Canon, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25619902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots/pseuds/riots
Summary: “We’re trying to calm the unrest in the populace, and a serial killer going after mixed aug couples is not helping things," Miller tells him. “Your partner will have the details.”“Argento?” MacReady asks.The twist of Miller’s mouth is wry. “Not quite,” he says.The door behind him slides open. “You asked to see me?” Adam Jensen asks, and MacReady has to close his eyes, pressing his fingertips to his forehead even as he grits his teeth. Of fucking course. Hewouldget stuck working a shit job with his least favourite tin can.getting stuck with a low level murder case is bad enough for senior agent macready. worse still is pretending to be married to adam jensen. especially when it turns out that jensen knows how he likes his coffee (black), his whisky (neat), and his men (smug, with a great arse).
Relationships: Adam Jensen/Duncan MacReady
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2020





	when i hold you, don't you know the truth?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YunaBlaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YunaBlaze/gifts).



“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think I’m the best choice for an undercover case.” MacReady is doing his level best to keep his disbelief off his face, but it’s an uphill struggle right now. He’s been with Task Force 29 for three fucking years now, he’s senior agent in charge of operations, and now he’s being told to play dress up for a op. A minor one, too. Don’t they know he’s a shitty actor?

Miller barely looks up from the mountain of paperwork he’s sifting through. It’s been months since they saved the day in London, and all that’s seemed to do was assure Interpol that they’re the ones to load all the bullshit onto. “The agents handling the case have made no headway since they were assigned it six weeks ago.” There’s a note of reproach in Miller’s voice, which puts MacReady’s hackles up. He’s the one who assigned it to them, after all. “There’s been another set of murders, and with the vote approaching in a month, I want to get this case handled, now. You’re our best tracker. You _are_ the best choice.” 

MacReady sighs. He’s worked with Jim Miller for long enough now. He knows that tone of voice. “Thank you, sir,” he says. 

“You’re also the only choice,” Miller says, glancing up at MacReady pointedly. “We’re trying to calm the unrest in the populace, and a serial killer going after mixed aug couples is not helping things.” He holds up a pocket secretary and turns back to his work. “Your partner will have the details.”

MacReady flicks open the pocket secretary, glances at the information scrolling through. A killer, targeting couples made up of augs and naturals. He remembers the case, and he remembers, vividly, ruefully, passing it off to another agent. He’s going to have to have a little chitchat with Hendrick about case handling if he’s going to get called in like this every time. 

But - augs and naturals. That certainly limits who he’ll be working with. “Argento?” he asks. He’s read her file, and seen her work in the field. She doesn’t have any particular skill in undercover work either, but she’s a crack shot. He wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at how she’s adjusting to field work.

The twist of Miller’s mouth is wry. “Not quite,” he says. 

The door behind him slides open. “You asked to see me?” Adam Jensen asks, and MacReady has to close his eyes, pressing his fingertips to his forehead even as he grits his teeth. Of fucking course. He _would_ get stuck working a shit job with his least favourite tin can.

“I was just explaining your next assignment to Agent MacReady.” Miller’s eyes slide back to MacReady’s. His gaze is heavy, fixing MacReady to the spot. “Jensen has a great deal of experience with stealth and undercover work. I trust this _won’t_ be an issue.” 

“No, _sir_ ,” MacReady grits out. Miller quirks an eyebrow at his tone, but he lets it slide. 

Jensen is hard to read on a good day, but the corners of his mouth twist up in the hint of a wry smile. “You don’t have to sound so excited, MacReady,” he says.

MacReady bristles. “Yeah, I’m real fucking ecstatic,” he deadpans. 

“Enough,” Miller says, with the tired tone of a man chiding squabbling children. Somehow, it just makes it worse. “The assignment is easy enough. You’ll establish yourself as a presence in the neighbourhood, do reconnaissance, and do your best to draw this killer out of hiding.” He touches a few buttons on his computer and the pocket secretary in MacReady’s hand chimes with the transfer of more information. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you the importance of getting this dealt with as soon as possible?”

MacReady will never forget what he saw on the day of the Incident, but he’s not fool enough to think that continued tension between augs and naturals will help anything at all. It’s the only damn thing keeping him playing along. “No, sir,” he says again. 

“Good,” Miller says, and MacReady knows a dismissal when he hears it. He turns on his heel, as crisply as he knows how, and checks Jensen with his shoulder as he’s headed through the door.

Jensen follows at his heel all the way back to MacReady’s desk. “Good to see you still haven’t learned to play nice,” he says. He’s always had this way of talking to MacReady, even and unaffected, that just fucking grinds MacReady’s gears. He’d say it’s a lack of respect, but he knows that’s not true. Jensen’s headstrong, and has a distinct disinterest in the chain of command, but MacReady knows he can trust Jensen to step up when it counts. 

It’s something, at least.

“I’m the senior agent here,” MacReady says, and he rubs a hand over his face again. He’s getting a headache. “So no, I’m not going to play at being excited about a low level case where I have to play at being married to my least favourite hanzer.” Never mind that he knows so few, now. At least Argento is above Jensen, that’s for sure.

Jensen folds his arms over his chest. “Oh, come on, MacReady,” he says. “I’m at least second to last. Maybe even third.”

“Don’t push your luck,” MacReady says dryly. He sighs and sits down heavily in his chair. “Miller says you’ve got an idea?”

Jensen shifts his weight on his feet, drawing his shoulders up. Straight to business. “Mmm,” he says, and he sends a file to MacReady’s computer. Faces flash up on the screen - the victims, up until now. Young, most of them, multiple races, genders - none of it seems to matter to their target. “The killer is operating out of Překážka,” Jensen says. “I say we start there. Establish ourselves as a presence, ask a few discreet questions.” 

MacReady looks up at Jensen, surprised. “Překážka,” he says. “You still living there?” 

Jensen nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Should make things easier. People are already used to seeing me around.” He smirks. “Plus, I’m pretty sure the people in my neighbourhood won’t bat an eye when I move you in.”

“What.” MacReady narrows his eyes. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly. You want me to move in with you? Is that really necessary?” There’s more information scrolling across his computer screen, but MacReady’s more interested in the smile stretching across Jensen’s mouth, amused and smug.

“No, of course not,” Jensen says. “Married couples definitely don’t seem suspicious when they don’t sleep together. Perfectly plausible.”

MacReady groans. “Sometimes I hate this job,” he mutters. It’s a strange thought, staying with Jensen. While they’ve settled into a begrudging sort of respect for each other, they’re certainly not friends. They’ve barely exchanged a casual conversation since London, and that’s _since_ they became civil with each other. It’ll be something else entirely to stay in his apartment and play house. 

“Sure,” Jensen says. He gestures at the screen in front of MacReady. “Study up. You can grab your stuff tonight, and I’ll bring you over to mine tomorrow.” 

“Oh, are you in charge of this, now?” MacReady laughs incredulously. “Any more tips, chief?”

Jensen turns back, tosses something on MacReady’s desk. “Don’t forget that,” he says with a smirk, and then he slips out the door.

MacReady picks up the plain gold band and holds it up in the light. “Damnit,” he mutters, and he rubs his temples. That headache’s kicking in with a vengeance now.

When he slides the ring on, it fits him perfectly, and MacReady has no idea what to make of that. 

-

The aug ghetto is less of a ghetto these days, and there aren’t cops keeping everyone inside anymore, but that doesn’t mean the city’s aug population isn’t encouraged to stay inside their bounds. Jensen leads the way from the train station to his building, and MacReady does his best not to pay too much attention to the way people’s eyes follow them as they walk down the street. He’s not uneasy, exactly, but it feels somehow like being in uniform. He’s being measured for danger. He presses his lips together and says nothing to Jensen. 

The building Jensen brings him to is old and worn, and MacReady thinks guiltily of his own apartment on the other side of the city. It certainly looks a sight better than this. “Give it a chance,” Jensen says as they climb the stairs. His voice is mild, but he’s seen right through him. “Maybe it’ll surprise you.”

Is this a metaphor? MacReady eyes Jensen, mouth twisting. “I doubt it,” he says, and as Jensen rounds the corner, MacReady catches sight of the hint of a smile. 

Jensen’s apartment is on the top floor, and as he keys the door open, he slides one metal hand from MacReady’s shoulder to the small of his back. MacReady flinches, startled, his ears heating up. “Appearances,” Jensen reminds him, voice easy, and that’s why MacReady lets him steer him inside. Lets him press close in the dark and murmur the words in MacReady’s ear. As though they were sweet nothings. “You wouldn’t want this case to take any longer than it has to, would you?”

“Unbelievable,” MacReady growls. He’s no blushing virgin, he’s a grown man with three ex wives under his belt, and he’s spent enough time in the theatre of combat to become intimately familiar with what a man feels like under his hands. But he’s used to taking the lead. He’s _not_ used to this, to Jensen’s big hand on his waist, nudging him around. He’s doing it to get a rise out of him, MacReady knows, but he can’t help the flush still creeping up his cheeks. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to get in my trousers on the first date.”

“Oh, If I’m trying, you’ll know,” Jensen smirks, and MacReady rolls his eyes, grits his teeth, and doesn’t push him away.

Jensen drops the act when they’re inside, and the door is closed behind them. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a slob,” MacReady says, eyeing the stacks of books and boxes strewn around the apartment, as though Jensen had just moved. It’s been years, though. Other than the clutter, the place is rather nice, certainly nicer than he’d assumed. The TV is enormous, and the couch isn’t too bad either. Considering he’ll probably be getting pretty familiar with it while he stays there, it’s a good thing.

“I guess I just have other priorities,” Jensen says pointedly. He slides off his expensive, tailored jacket and hangs it up, heading into the kitchen and opening the fridge.

“Yeah, like playing superhero when you’ve got a case to work.” MacReady lingers at the door, frowning. “Well?” he asks. He spreads his hands wide, raising his eyebrows.

Jensen laughs a little. “You can leave your stuff in the bedroom,” he says, and he gestures down the hallway. “Door at the end. Bathroom is just over there.” He raises his chin a little, like he’s remembering something. “Take off your shoes, too.”

There’s an empty shoe rack by the door. Of course Jensen wouldn’t need it. Metal arms, metal legs. MacReady ignores the rack and kicks off his boots, leaving them beside the door, and heading down the hall. It’s small, but well appointed. The bed looks nice. MacReady spares a second to look at it wistfully. His forty-year-old back won’t thank him for a week spent on a couch. 

When he emerges again, Jensen’s got his shades off, and MacReady is startled by the brightness and clarity of his eyes. He’s never seen him without his shades augmentation up. It stops him in his tracks. Jensen holds up an empty tumbler. “Whisky?” he asks. 

“I think I’ve fucking earned it,” MacReady agrees, and Jensen snorts, the corner of his mouth turning up. He’s a sight easier to read without those damn glasses covering his eyes. MacReady prefers him this way. 

As he takes the glass, his eyes catch on the ring on his finger. “Hmm,” he says, and Jensen raises an eyebrow. “Been a while since I wore one of these,” he says. The whisky is quality - somehow the one unsurprising thing about this whole experience is that Jensen won’t organize his living space but he _will_ shell out for a good whisky. 

“Don’t worry, MacReady,” Jensen says, and his smile widens. “I promise not to stick around any longer than any of your other spouses.”

MacReady is the first to poke fun at himself for his checkered romantic past, but that doesn’t mean that the barb doesn’t hurt a little. At this point, he’s sort of accepted that he’s simply not cut out for marriage. Between all the combat and relocations his job requires and his own shitty temper and bristly personality, he knows that he’s not a good husband. Three women have told him so. Still, a part of him twinges. He likes the idea of marriage. Not weddings - not the frippery and the fucking event of it all - but marriage, domesticity. Companionship. Seems nice. And seems like no matter how hard he tries, he can’t settle into it. Better to save everyone some heartache and throw in the towel. “Great,” MacReady says. “Thanks for that.”

Jensen’s ring is silver, he notices, which bothers him until he realizes it’s so it stands out against the black and gold of his augs. Practical, for the case. But there’s something satisfying about it, the thick band bright against the black of Jensen’s hand. “Just looking out for you,” Jensen says, and he raises his own glass to MacReady before he drinks. “To our marriage,” he says.

He’s needling MacReady. “To downgrading,” MacReady says, and he knocks back most of the whisky in one gulp. 

Jensen’s eyes are bright with laughter. “Upgrading,” he corrects, and he gestures at his augmentations. MacReady follows the gesture’s path, from the implants around his eyes to the breadth of his shoulders, his trim waist, strong metal thighs. He has to admit, Jensen’s well constructed, mechanically and otherwise. At least he’s easy to look at. 

His gaze shifts back up and Jensen is watching him. The curl of his mouth is smug and knowing and MacReady looks away, scowling. “You do yourself too much credit,” he says finally, but it’s too little, too late, and he’s been caught. Christ, this is going to be one hell of a week, he can already tell. He hopes Jensen has more of this whisky. He holds his glass out for a refill. 

-

The neighbourhood coffee shop is bustling, quaint and worn. It’s also a spot of commonality between all four of the known pairs of victims. All had patronized the cafe before they’d met their untimely ends. “Do me a favour,” Jensen says as they step up to the counter. “Try to look a little less like you’re casing the joint? I like this place. I still have to live here when you’re gone.”

The cafe was obviously built after London. Though rundown, it bears none of the signs of the looting and damage of the segregation. It’s bright, well-lit, and they’ll be lucky to get a table. “One of us has to do this job,” MacReady replies. 

Jensen snorts, shakes his head, and turns to the patient, barely interested barista. “Hey, I’ll have a medium americano, black.” He gestures with a thumb at MacReady. “He’ll have a medium of whatever roast is darkest, with a sugar.”

MacReady’s brow furrows and his stomach does a complicated maneuver. “You know my order?” he asks curiously. He’s genuinely surprised. If he’d ever asked Jensen to grab a coffee for him in the office, he’s certain he’d have taken a fist to the jaw for his trouble. 

“Sure,” Jensen says easily, and he sidles in close, pulling MacReady in to his side and tipping his head to look at him. They’re of a height, MacReady notices distantly, somehow satisfied by that knowledge. “I’ve picked up a few things here and there.” With Jensen’s eyes hidden, MacReady has to rely on the curl of his lips to read what he’s thinking. Now, he looks pleased with how he’s caught MacReady off balance.

And now, MacReady’s staring at his mouth.

MacReady clears his throat . “I’d hope so,” he says. Appearances, right. He slides his hand into Jensen’s back pocket. _I see your challenge and I raise the ante_. He waits until the moment is right, until Jensen is reaching to take his drink from the barista and MacReady grabs a full handful of his arse and squeezes, hard.

Jensen jerks in surprise, hot coffee splashing from his cup and onto the counter. Lucky for him, he’s got metal hands. “You alright there, love?” MacReady asks solicitously. “You’ve made a mess for the nice woman behind the cash.”

There’s a flush creeping up Jensen’s throat. MacReady hadn’t known he could still blush. “Fine,” Jensen grits out. The barista sighs a little and mops up the mess, handing MacReady his own drink with an expression that tells him it’s time to make a quick getaway. “Sorry,” Jensen says, voice rough with irritation, and then he’s pushing MacReady away.

“‘Love’,” Jensen scoffs, brows narrowed, as MacReady pulls out a chair for him and gestures for him to sit. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“Appearances,” MacReady says with a wicked grin. He can’t help but feel pretty pleased with himself for getting one up on Jensen, for once. 

It didn’t hurt that Jensen’s arse made a nice handful, too.

“You know,” Jensen says, and he folds one leg over his knee, raising his coffee to his mouth, “that excuse gets thinner every time you use it.”

Pretty fucking hypocritical, considering it was Jensen’s in the first place. “Huh,” MacReady says. The coffee’s decent, even. MacReady doesn’t like the fancy stuff at the chain cafes, with all the whipped cream and syrups, but Jensen had him pegged. Black coffee with a sugar to take the edge off (a trick he picked up from drinking bad corner store brew). Dead to rights. What else has Jensen been picking up about him? And what does he intend to do with the information?

“Pity you had to spill coffee everywhere,” MacReady says, and Jensen scoffs. “Doubt our friendly neighbourhood barista will be so friendly, now.” ‘Friendly’ is willing to talk about customers, especially the kind they’re looking for right now. 

Jensen shakes his head, putting down his coffee to pull out a pocket secretary. “I told you not to ruin this place for me,” he says. His posture shifts, and MacReady has the distinct feeling that even though he’s still facing him, Jensen’s not looking at him anymore. “Alright,” Jensen says. His voice is distant. Using his augs, MacReady notes. “Let’s get to work.”

MacReady doesn’t have the benefit of a clank’s eyes, so instead, he sits back, coffee folded between his hands, and he watches people go by. A good place to scope out a crowd, a coffee shop. He can people watch all he wants, and no one bats an eye. Of course, the key is to be subtle. Not his strong suit. 

The customers are a mixed bag. There are a couple of students in a corner with a few tables shoved together to maximize surface area. MacReady dismisses them first. Profilers have noted that their suspect is likely older, established, and most university students don’t have the coin you need to successfully and silently murder a whole trail of people. 

There are a few lone patrons, parked in worn armchairs, engrossed in their books or their phones, uncaring of the world around them. That too, eliminates them. Their killer wouldn’t show up to pick targets and then pay more attention to an old fashioned read. Defeats the purpose. He shakes his head. 

In front of him, still not focused on him, Jensen lays his hand, palm up, on the table. “Hand,” he says, sounding distracted. 

“What?” MacReady asks.

“Give me your hand.”

MacReady’s certain this isn’t necessary. No one’s really paying them much attention anyway, except maybe the eagle-eyed barista, ready for another spill. Still, he slides his fingers into Jensen’s, curls their hands tight together. The smooth plating of Jensen’s augs are surprisingly warm, and Jensen smiles a little, his attention cutting back to MacReady. It’s a role they’re playing, newlyweds, fucking wedded bliss or whatever, but MacReady can’t help but notice the strange tension that stretches between the two of them, new and foreign. 

“Nothing,” Jensen says after a moment, taking a sip of his americano. His thumb rubs easily across MacReady’s scarred knuckles. “Schoolwork, online shopping. The guy in the corner over there is thinking about selling pictures of his feet.” He shrugs, and MacReady raises his eyebrows. Jensen had been scanning the nearby devices. Heavy tech, that. What else has he got in that noggin of his? “He should do it. Easy money.”

“Focus,” MacReady growls, and Jensen grins. He’s still holding MacReady’s hand.

“I think it’s a coincidence,” Jensen says after a moment, shaking his head. “This is the only aug friendly place to get decent coffee on this side of the city.” He shrugs, and his mouth twists a little in frustration. “Dead end.”

It’d have been too easy, anyway. MacReady exhales and shifts forward in his chair. He knows, of course, that they’ve been holding hands for far too long now. There’s acting, and there’s this, whatever it is.

He doesn’t let go.

“Back to square one,” MacReady says.

“Is it?” Jensen asks. 

MacReady doesn’t say anything at all. He just sips his coffee and looks away again. Jensen’s hand is warm in his.

-

After the coffee shop, they take a walk around the neighbourhood. Their trip takes them to most of the crime scenes. They’ve long since been cleaned up but it’s just so they can get a sense of things, see if they can piece together any sort of similarities, any clues. 

They give it up as night falls, and MacReady follows Jensen back to his apartment. He’s getting used to it, now, which is a fucking strange feeling. Jensen shows no interest in entertaining MacReady, just slides his jacket off and steps into the living room, flicking on a shitty action movie and propping his feet up on the table. It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t, really. MacReady pushes that thought to the side and toes off his boots, heading into the kitchen and grabbing himself a glass of water.

He only manages to watch the movie for fifteen minutes before the technical inaccuracies and terrible dialogue starts grating on his nerves, and then he pulls out his pocket secretary and ignores it. Now that it's getting late, his back is really starting to ache. MacReady shifts in his seat, grimacing, and presses a hand to the small of his back. “I’m getting way too old to be crashing on a couch,” he mutters. 

Jensen tips his head, shrugging a shoulder. “No one said you had to,” he says mildly.

“Oh, you’re going to be a gentleman?” MacReady barks out a laugh. “Give the bed to your guest? How _kind_ of you.”

“Didn’t say that,” Jensen says, and his eyes cut from his book towards MacReady, his eyebrow raised in challenge. 

And isn’t that interesting? MacReady lets his pocket secretary drop into his lap. “You’re suggesting we share? What is this, a teenage sleepover? Where’s your mother with the snacks?” 

“Hey, if you want to sleep on the floor, too, you’re welcome to it.” Jensen turns the page of his book deliberately. “I’m just saying, there are other options.”

MacReady would never admit it, but it’s been a long time since he shared a bed with someone. That’s not to say he hasn’t _slept_ with anyone, but staying the night? Not so much. It’s a little too comfortable for him, these days, a little too close to that line. Sex is easy. Anything else? Well, he’s just not suited for it. 

But his back _hurts_ , and he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Oh, no,” MacReady says. “Who am I to say no to your gracious offer?” He stands, stretching his arms over his head to alleviate the ache. Jensen rolls his eyes, but his gaze follows the movement of MacReady’s body, and MacReady feels that tension stretch between them again. It’s certainly not unwelcome. Just - completely unexpected.

“Bed already, old man?” Jensen laughs.

MacReady flips him off lazily. “Enjoy your shitty movie,” he tells him, and then he heads to the bedroom. 

The bed isn’t made, and the desk by the window is littered with spare parts. MacReady shucks off his clothing, leaves them laid neatly by his bag on the floor. Christ, he was right about the bed, though. The mattress is fucking incredible and he groans a little as he climbs under the sheets and sinks into it. He’ll certainly have a better night’s sleep tonight.

As he settles in and his eyes slide shut, he deliberately doesn’t think about the faint scent of another man on the sheets. Strange, to think that he’ll come out of this job knowing what Jensen’s pillows smell like. He snorts and shakes his head, pulling the blankets up higher around him as he drifts off.

He wakes much later, in a darkened room, with the bed shifting under someone else’s weight. “Sorry,” Jensen mutters. His knees brush up against the backs of MacReady’s thighs as he gets himself comfortable, but MacReady doesn’t shift away. He twists further into the pillow and falls back asleep.

In the morning, as the automated shutters slide open to let in the morning sunlight, MacReady slides into wakefulness again. He’s facing Jensen now, and it takes him a moment to realize that his ankle is hooked around one of Jensen’s, and Jensen’s got one hand curled around MacReady’s wrist in his sleep. MacReady doesn’t move. 

The sunlight wakes Jensen and he groans as he blinks into consciousness. “Sorry,” he says again, voice bleary, and he pulls away, yawning. “Mmmf.” 

He rolls into a sitting position and MacReady watches him rub at the back of his neck. He admires the muscular line of Jensen’s bare back for a moment, then he pushes the sheets down himself. Right. They’ve got a job to do. “It happens,” MacReady says. He thinks about making a joke about how he must be irresistible to Jensen for him to do something like that in his sleep, but honestly he just needs coffee right now. “Tell me you’ve got something caffeinated in this place.”

“Instant?” Jensen says. He pulls an old shirt over his head, and the fact that MacReady thinks that’s a shame means that he’s getting dangerously close to a line he shouldn’t be crossing. 

“Garbage.” MacReady scoffs, and Jensen laughs. “Won’t wake you up. Get dressed. We’re going out again.”

“Yes, _Senior Agent_ ,” Jensen says dryly, and MacReady pushes him with a hand as they leave the bedroom. 

It’s the best night’s sleep he’s had in a long time, and MacReady’s not fool enough to blame the mattress for it.

-

This kind of job is the most infuriating type for MacReady. So much of it is just _waiting_. Within a week, they’ve canvassed the neighbourhood, asked as many discreet questions as they can, but drawn a blank. Their target is good at covering their tracks. At least no one else has been targeted in the meantime. A small miracle, at least. 

So what do they have to do? Nothing. Make their appearances around the neighbourhood to lure them out. Hold hands, and look into each other’s eyes in public places. That’s becoming embarrassingly easy, too. MacReady reaches for Jensen’s hand as they walk now, easy as breathing, too easy. He’d caught himself the other night pressing his hands to Jensen’s sides as he slipped past him, and they were _in Jensen’s apartment_. He’s losing his head, and this isn’t even a real undercover gig. 

Today, they’re just at the minimarket, picking up some snacks. “No,” MacReady says. “What?” He takes the bag of chips out of Jensen’s hand and shakes them a little for emphasis. “These things have enough salt to preserve a corpse.”

Jensen snatches them back, gesturing at his metal limbs. “Not really a problem for me,” he says smugly. 

MacReady rolls his eyes, turns back to the display. There wasn’t a lot of food in Jensen’s apartment when he’d shown up - it looked like Jensen had about as much interest in cooking as MacReady did. They had mostly eaten takeout until now, from the closest aug-friendly restaurants, but they were running out of snacks for Jensen’s late night shitty movie habit. 

It figures that the one time they’re not looking for trouble, it finds them. A metal hand closes around MacReady’s wrist. He frowns, looking up to find a man staring intently at him. He’s well-dressed, his suit is tailored, his beard is neat. “You’re not worthy,” the man hisses, and his grip tightens until MacReady bites off a yell, the bones of his wrist grinding together. “How dare you bind yourself to him?”

MacReady drops the basket of snacks and shoves at the man. “Get your hands off me,” he says. The man’s grip has shifted, muscling MacReady into the wall to get leverage to scrabble at his hand. At - the _ring_. They’ve finally pushed their target out of his hole. MacReady’s confusion changes to triumph. “Jensen!”

He’s there in a heartbeat, arm pressed tight across the murderer’s throat as he pulls the man’s head back, prying him away from MacReady. “Got him,” Jensen grunts. 

But they don’t. The man is surprisingly strong, and slippery as an eel. He twists away from the both of them, the movement jostling the shelves and sending bags of chips to the ground. “Traitor!” the man tells Jensen, shoving a finger in his face. “He’s so far beneath you. Base. Primitive.” 

The next thing he points at Jensen is a gun. MacReady’s gut lurches and he’s moving before he even thinks about it, diving between Jensen and the weapon to tackle their target to the ground. He’s only got the advantage for a second before the man’s metal hand closes around his throat and starts to press. He scrabbles at the man’s grip, gun forgotten as his airway closes. There are spots swimming in his eyes but he can’t make any headway. The augmented fingers are immovable. He sobs for air.

There’s another crash and oxygen rushes into MacReady’s lungs. He throws himself backwards, gasping and clutching at his throat. He can feel the imprint of the metal fingers in his skin. It takes him a long moment to stop his head from swimming and realize that Jensen’s smashed their target’s head against the tiled floor. There’s blood spreading from under the man’s body, but MacReady can’t find it in him to care.

Jensen shuffles over to MacReady and his shades flick off, his eyes bright with worry. “Mac,” he says and when his augmented fingers touch the bruising around MacReady’s throat, they’re so gentle. “Hey, Mac, are you alright?”

“Been better,” MacReady says. His voice is hoarse. His hand falls to land against Jensen’s knee. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Jensen curls one hand around MacReady’s jaw. “You were gonna take a bullet for me, Mac?” he asks quietly.

MacReady hadn’t even thought about it. Jensen’s more durable than your average person, but he’d still get hurt from a point blank shot to the chest. “Guess so,” MacReady says eventually. 

He doesn’t expect the way Jensen leans in, catching his mouth in a hasty, fervent kiss. MacReady clutches at Jensen’s shirtfront, holding him close. His head is still spinning, but he’s starting to think it’s less the lack of oxygen and more _Jensen_ , the size of his body over MacReady’s, the organic heart he can feel pumping rabbit fast against his knuckles, the fact that he’d dragged a man off MacReady and killed him for how he’d touched him. “Ah,” MacReady says, when Jensen pulls away. “So that’s where this was headed.”

“You couldn’t tell?” Jensen asks, and he smirks. His thumb traces a line across MacReady’s cheekbone and the dip of the scar on his jaw. “Some detective you are.” He laughs.

MacReady growls and pulls Jensen in close for another thorough, perfect kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> put upon barista: big mood


End file.
